


Empty Swimming Pools

by Zzzara



Series: Lost Boys [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal, Anal Sex, Based On a Troye Sivan Song, Bathroom sharing, Bottom Harry Potter, Bottoming from the Top, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Comfort, Depression Recovery, Depression treatment, Drarry, Empty Swimming Pools, Empty Swimming Pools Troye, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Time, First Time Topping, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Pining, Recovery, References to Depression, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Swimming, Swimming Boys, Swimming Pools, Top Draco Malfoy, Topping from the Bottom, Troye, Troye Sivan Song inspired, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, all Troye's songs are Drarry AF, pov switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zzzara/pseuds/Zzzara
Summary: I see a lighthouse in the distance calling my nameBut I can't get there 'til I go through all of this painThere's a glimmer of hope like an exhale of smoke in the sky...





	Empty Swimming Pools

**Author's Note:**

> This work belongs to the series "Lost Boys" and is preceded by the work "Lost Boy", and doesn't actually make much sense if you haven't read "Lost Boy".
> 
> ********** !!!!! WARNINGS: This fic deals with Depression recovery, [implied] Loss and Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempts, and also contains Implied/Referenced Character Death. !!!!! **********
> 
> The mood and the title are borrowed from Troye Sivan's song "Swimming Pools", which has also been an inspiration for writing this fic. There's this hopeful air to it which perfectly underlines the mood of this story, do listen to it before reading this fic, you won't regret it! :)  
> This fic is about recovery and hope, and the growth of love.
> 
> Eternally grateful to Ann (Poppyprn on AO3, @nottooldtodream on Tumblr) - my wonderful beta. Working with you is a pleasure, thank you so much! <3
> 
> [Disclaimer: all characters belong to J.K. Rowling; here I don't make any profit whatsoever; I write for my own entertainment.]

**Empty Swimming Pools**

**I**

_I see a lighthouse in the distance calling my name_

_But I can't get there 'til I go through all of this pain_

_There's a glimmer of hope like an exhale of smoke in the sky_

_And sometimes you drain out all the shit that used to feel right_

_Empty swimming pools_

_[Troye Sivan, ‘Swimming Pools’]_

"Time for you to go, my dear."

She squeezes my hand. Her touch is warm and vivid, and I don't know how all this is not real.

She shakes her head. "It _is_ real for me here, but for you it is not. You should go back."

"Mum..."

"You are on your way to recovery, Draco, you shouldn't dwell here for too long."

She presses her lips to my temple and stands up.

I watch her graceful movements as she heads to the open French window. The straight set of her shoulders, the proud head, hair elegantly arranged above her neck; even the faint fragrance of her perfume - airy and transparent - is as I always remember it. I stand up, following her to the porch.

She looks up at me. "Take care of yourself, dear... and don't resent help of your friends, if it comes your way." She reaches up, brushing my hair to the side on my forehead.

"I love you, Mum," I whisper, swallowing my tears back.

"I love you, too."

She turns, heading down the steps into the lush rose garden that spreads as far as an eye can see. I watch her walking among the bushes and statues and fountains, the hem of her pearl grey dress trailing in her wake, on and on, until her footsteps on the gravel path are no longer audible, and she disappears from view.

I open my eyes with a sigh. I am reclining in the armchair in front of the open French window. The faint breeze worries the transparent curtain, and the cheerful twitter of birds outside mingles with the sound of the fountain. It is midday. I always take a nap after my morning exercise routine, they say it does me good. Stretching, I stand up and pull the curtain aside, stepping out into the garden.

The sky is bright blue; the weather is perfect here, as always. I am in St. Mungo's Mind Healing & Mental Recovery Ward, and of course all this is an illusion - the excellent one. The hospital is in the middle of Central London, how else would they provide a natural environment they claim to be so nurturing for their patients? It costs money of course - a lot - but I have it. It is the only thing I actually have.

The air vibrates with a faint buzz, indicating arrival of the nurse in ten seconds. They dim down the sound of their Apparition here. Janette appears before me, holding a small tray with two vials on it.

"Your potions, Mr. Malfoy."

She is the sweetest person I've ever met: always nice, always helpful, barely older than I. I asked her not to call me 'Mister'. She does anyway. "These are the rules as to how we address our patients," she said.

"Thank you, Janette." I take the vials, downing them one after another.

There are only two left for the time being. At the beginning there were about a dozen.

If it goes this way, they say, I will be able to leave this place in about a month. It's been six weeks already, and I am making excellent progress, my Healer Mr. Proudy has told me.

It is good, I suppose, though I haven't decided yet where I am to go. Not Hogwarts, no, I don't think so. I guess I've turned this page over. And there's no way I'm returning to the Manor. Absolutely not. Might rent a flat in London at first and see how it would turn out.

"You have a visitor," Janette says, "should I let him in?"

"Yes, please do," I reply, "tell him I'll be by the fountain."

We have this dialogue for the thousands time now. Potter visits every day, and it is always the same: she asks if I am inclined to see him, I say yes, please, let him in. Caring and supportive atmosphere and respect for the patients' boundaries - is the policy of this place. I am okay with it. No wonder they give the best results in Mind-Healing in UK. Janette nods and Disapparates barely disturbing the air, and I head through the garden in the direction of the fountain.

I always meet him in the garden. The bedroom feels too personal, which is ridiculous, considering we'd been sharing the common showers a few months ago. Yet here I am.

Potter is too much for me, I'd rather not face him in the closed spaces just yet. The garden is okay. He doesn't seem to mind. Actually, there's nothing he minds these days, once I'd agreed to undergo this treatment. At the beginning he tiptoed around me on the eggshells, until I snapped and said that I don't need him to babysit me, I've got a personal nurse here, who does it professionally. Now it's that weird friendship-not-quite-friendship between us. He comes every day and spends a couple of hours here. Usually in the afternoon, for my morning schedule is busy. Sometimes in the evening, and we lie in the grass in the garden, looking at the stars.

It is the middle of March, but here it's always the lush beginning of Summer - the season I love most. Early June, around my birthday. They specifically asked me for the detailed description.

I like it here. My safety bubble. I think it's good I'd agreed to stay. There is a lot on my schedule, and the medications is only the tiny part of it. I do my physical training; I have individual sessions with the Mind-Healer; I work in pairs and groups with the other patients; there is even time before bed that is dedicated to my 'homework' as they call it here - taking notes of my thoughts and emotions through the day, which I hand down to the nurse every night, and which serves as an analysis material for our group-sessions. I press on, step by step every day, and it helps. Even the thoughts of my Mother don't drag me back into that relentless circle in my head that had been eating at me, pulling me deeper down as a whirlpool ever since she died. I have dreams about her - like this one today - this is our way of communication, I suppose. But recently they'd ceased to leave me in pain. I feel quiet sadness and longing for her that I know will never go away, but they don't damage me. I think I am letting her go at last.

I feel mostly calm these days, even serene sometimes, following my routine on the way to recovery. Even around Potter - well... almost. I see he tries not to press, to give me space. But he is - _Potter_. What can you do? Potter just doesn't acquire tact out of nowhere, does he? Wherever he is, he occupies the entire space, even trying not to. He is intense and forward, and his attempts at sugar-coating things are ridiculous, so I told him either to cease tiptoeing around me (which he doesn't manage to do right anyway) or leave me be. The bastard is stubborn, he isn't leaving. I don't know where this is going, and I don't particularly want to think about the future. Now I live in my present, and I am content with how things are between us.

Blaise visits sometimes, but not very often - usually once a week. He is at Hogwarts and works hard at his NEWTs. He set his mind on pursuing a Curse-Breaker career. I don't actually know how I feel about him and Potter. If I dwelled on it, I think jealousy would eat me alive. So I try not to think of it at all. Despite everything I said then, it hit me hard. On the Christmas Eve, after the conversation with McGonagall, I was returning to the Common Room alone. I was in a really nice mood - a bit of wine and all, and Potter across the table, all flustered and soft around the edges, looking at me as though I hung the Moon. I thought then, that maybe.... I am not a romantic person, you see, and I always doubt anything that appears too good at first sight. And Potter, really? He's a freaking epitome of _'too good'_ for me. But it appeared so vivid... I thought that maybe it could turn into something real between us. The shock crushed me, nailing me to the spot, rendering me unable to move as I stood there in the doorway, staring into the dark room where they were intertwined on Potter's bed: the black figure looming above the other one, the sounds of their heavy breathing filling the room, my hands were trembling.

"I want," he said.

"I'll give it to you," Blaise whispered.

I was choking on my own heartbeat.

When Potter screamed, I bolted out, dashing down the stairs and across the Common Room to the exit, their loud moans chasing me all the way to the corridor. I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, sliding down to sit on the flagstones. I couldn't believe it, it didn't make sense - and made perfect sense at the same time. Only I had been an idiot to believe that Potter was immune to Blaise's power just because Potter himself thought so. Despair overwhelmed me as I sat there, staring helplessly into space.

"I want..." he said, and he did.

And I didn't know how would I be able to look at Potter again, knowing the sound of his breathing in the darkness, when he was offering himself to Blaise.

When I came back in sometime later, everything was quiet. I lay down on the sofa before the fireplace. A sound woke me up at dawn. I turned my head, not comprehending why I started in the silent room. But then it repeated: a moan of pleasure and agony, and I recognised Potter's voice.

_Oh fuck._

I covered my head with a cushion, pressing it into my ear.  When I finally woke up again, it was morning, I was covered with a quilt, and Potter was sitting at the foot of the sofa. I was raging inside – with jealousy and resentment and anger. I wished to kill him for... I don't know what. For not being able to compete with a Veela, I suppose.

The two of them jumped out of their skin to convince me it was nothing, and it's not as though I didn't believe them in the end. But I looked at Potter, and couldn't help imagining his pale limbs wrapped around Blaise's lithe body, in a stark contrast to his black skin. Couldn't shrug off that feeling of the air thick with desire that emanated from the dark room that hit me in the face as I stood there, listening as Potter was giving himself to the darkness.

The thing is, I know how Blaise can be. And though we've never had it for real, those dreams he invoked in me - I know nothing can compare. If _this_ is what Potter wants, and no doubt he does, I know I am not capable of giving it to him.

Recently, however, I don't think about it much, my conflicted emotions have evened out a bit. My distant self from two months ago, and I at the moment, thankfully, differ too much.

Potter hadn't returned to Hogwarts after my suicide attempt on the 31st of January. Those first few days he almost never left my bedside. After I'd been transferred to the Mental Recovery, he said he didn't feel like going back to Hogwarts. When I asked him what he was doing these days - he said he's remodelling his house. The Most Ancient and Creepy House of Black. He said he can't stay there unless it's completely changed. I can relate. I feel this way about the Manor.

"Hi!" Potter flops down beside me on the bench. "What's up?"

"Hi," I say, offering my hand.

He shakes it, holding probably a bit too long, letting go perhaps a bit too reluctantly.

"Fancy a flight?" He asks.

I am glad to see him, I really am.

"Sure, why not?" I say, and we head in the direction of the broom shed.

**

"His progress is outstanding, Mr. Potter. I believe if things go on like this, he is to be released in a week," says Healer Proudy.

"That's excellent, thank you!"

Visiting today, I've dropped by in his office before going to Draco's room (or rather his garden - he never invites me to his room).

"Actually... Mr. Potter... I've been meaning to ask you for quite a while," he says.

"What is it?"

"Regarding Mr. Malfoy's recovery, professionally, we call it 'recovery', and it indeed is, as such. In terms of the patient's results in achieving that balance between their even emotional state and absence of the actual (and here I mean pure physiological) need of potions to establish and maintain it. But... I am not keen on disregarding the significance of a supportive relationship and its ability to sustain and nurture the mental progress patients achieve in our Healing Programme.

I blink at him. I am not a complete dolt and actually follow what he is saying, but... I swear, Hermione would have done better than I at the moment.

“In other words,” he gives me _a look_ , I strongly suspect he’s taking the piss, “does Mr. Malfoy have anyone to turn to in a moment of need, in the course of his daily life? Of course, our Mind-Healers are available, but I am aware of his family situation, which served as a reason for him to require our services in the first place..."

"You mean... is there anyone left who cares for him after the death of his parents?" I ask, feeling as though I already know what exactly he's implying.

"Yes, that is what I mean."

"There are two of us, but Mr. Zabini is not very close to him recently, and he is at Hogwarts, working hard on his education. Which leaves only me," I reply.

Healer Proudy winces. "Ah... I did think so, I must admit, and you only confirmed my theory. Considering this, Mr. Potter, there is an important question that I have to ask you. The answer depends on how far you are willing to go to help Mr. Malfoy, and you must answer honestly Mr. Potter."

"Yes?" My heart begins thudding.

"I am asking you for a favour: he must not be left alone for the time being. At first, after being released from this Ward, he may need help and support to overcome the sudden lack of his routine here, which no doubt he's come to depend on. He needs communication and human connection with a person he can relate to. He needs that natural transition to real life that only a person who genuinely cares can provide. Which even may require moving in together for some time, until things will even themselves out. Do you think you would be able to convince him?"

I stare at him. Er... Moving in? Frankly, _that_ I didn't expect.

"I don't know," I say, "as far as I know him, he is extremely opposed to the idea of depending on someone, so... he may refuse, but I’ll try."

"Do try Mr. Potter. It is essential that he has your support."

**

Potter is all weird today. I am telling him about the latest therapy-group, about how we analysed our dreams. He isn't listening; he is staring at me, miles away, and he asked me to tell him in the first place.

"So, Healer Meredith..." I look at him. 

_Okay._

"Jumped on the table in her 10-inches high-heels and screamed: _'Fuck you, crazy fuckers! I'm done! I'm leaving for breeding purple Unicorns in the Highlands!'_ " I finish.

He nods, looking me in the eyes.

"Potter!" I snap, and he starts, "what's the matter with you?"

"What?"

"Come on, out with it."

"Out with what?"

"With the thing you are going to ask me anyway," I say.

"How?.." he begins, "I mean, what... What are you talking about?"

I roll my eyes. "Let me guess... this is personal; this is about you and me; you are afraid I might refuse, and refuse I might; you don't know how to put it; you are very keen on persuading me, because my acceptance is essential for you." I count my fingers one by one, "Why, Potter... _are you proposing?_ " I widen my eyes in a mock-horror.

His jaw drops. Er... I mean... _what the fuck?_

He laughs. "Oh my God, _how_... actually, yeah..." He laughs again nervously. "You can say that..." He runs his hand through his hair. "Sort of... Because I actually was going to offer to move in together." He rubs his neck. "But it's essential for you more than for me; you got that part wrong," he finishes, face bewildered.

"What?" I utter. I mean _... what?_

He stands up and heads to the fountain, perching himself on the edge of its stone basin. I remain at the bench.

"Okay. Begin at the beginning," he says.

He is wearing dark-blue jeans with black leather boots and a shirt in a jade shade of green. He looks ridiculously attractive, the bastard. A dark-grey woollen jacket and a rainbow-scarf are folded over the back of the bench, it's too warm here for them.

"Healer Proudy," he says, "told me that after your release from here you shouldn't be left on your own. He asked me to keep an eye on you, and the easiest way to do that  is for you to move in with me. I mean, to my place."

My jaw drops. "Okay, this _is_ a proposal indeed, Potter... I wasn't wrong."

"Yeah, you weren't." He laughs. "So? What do you say?"

"I don't like the idea of anyone babysitting me."

"I don't offer my babysitting services. I offer you a room in my house to live in, that's all."

The sun reflects in his glasses, sending flecks of sunlight right into my eyes. I squint.

"Actually, you told me," he continues, "you don't plan to return to the Manor, so you have to find a place to live anyway."

He's not wrong.

"I appreciate the irony," I say, "but I've actually been thinking about renting a flat in London. May as well rent a _house_ ," I smirk.

"A _room_ , Malfoy." He crosses his arms over his chest. "I said nothing about a _house_."

"Okay...but..." I stop. In fact, this... though a mad idea, may be not that bad; and the other thing is - I don't want to lose the pretext to see Potter everyday; with my full recovery here there would be no reason for him to see me that often.

"Agreed," I say, "but I intend to actually rent it. I'll pay you and will officially have the right to demand some standards."

"Fine, Malfoy, _fine!_ " He throws his palms in the air. " _Pay_ me. Give me your money, so I’ll officially become your landlord and have the right to demand of you to behave."

"Fine." I nod. "But you said your house is old and dingy and in a horrible state. I'm not keen on spending my money on a mouldy bed." I cross my arms.

"That's why I am asking now. They say you are being released in a week. If you accept my... _proposal_ ," he grins, "I'll have the time to clean the mould out of your bedroom."

"Hmmm..." I stand up and walk towards him, offering my hand. "Deal."

"Deal." He grins and shakes it.

**

**II**

He opens the door and I follow him into the hallway. The very first thing that hits me in the face is the smell of paint. Potter switches the lights on.

"Wow it's... _new_ here," I say, looking around.

It's very empty and the walls are freshly painted in a light-beige all around the hall and up to where the staircase disappears around the next landing.

"What do you think?" Potter asks.

"I like it," I say.

I really do. It's unexpected and new, blank. It no longer drags along old memories and stuff. It is light, clean and empty. You can make of it whatever you want. New start, new life. I like it.

"You do?" Potter turns to me in surprise.

"Yes?" I raise my eyebrows.

He stands really close. I see my tiny reflection in his glasses.

"Okay." He clears his throat. "I'm glad." The air is suddenly awkward. "Let's take a look at your room." He heads to the staircase, beckoning to me.

The next floor looks the same: neutral beige walls, white ceiling, polished dark wooden floors, and that's it. I must admit, this is not at all what I expected, listening to him complaining about the house. He leads me to the one of the three identical wooden doors along the wall to the right.

"This is your room." He opens the door, gesturing inside.

I enter. It's vast and quite simple: the walls are neutral beige again, dark polished floor, two large tall windows on the wall to the right, the door in the middle of the wall to the left. A double bed, a bedside table, a small sofa by the window, a chest of drawers. The colouring is beige and white and deep chocolate-brown. It's a nice room.

"Is it your own choice of colours?" I ask, looking around.

"Why? Is something wrong?" He asks defensively.

"Why?.. Nothing's wrong, it's good, actually." I roll my eyes. "Stop being so defensive."

"Yeah, it's my own choice," he replies, "I know, I'm not very smart in those things - in fancy colours and stuff." He gestures around with his hand. "So I went the easy way, and took these simple colours that match each other, so nothing could possibly go wrong."

"You astonish me, Potter... I'm not an expert, but I'm sure, to do what you'd done one have to actually possess the understanding of certain things."

"Is it a compliment?" He grins.

"Yes."

"Thanks," he says awkwardly, heading to the door in the middle of the wall, "actually, I've done your room identical to mine, 'cause I'd finished mine first and liked the result. Come." He gestures with his head, opening the door.

I follow him through, and it's the bathroom with two sinks, a big bath, a glass shower stall and the loo, which he crosses, opening the next door.

"We share the bathroom," I say, stepping into his room.

It is identical to mine, only the windows are on the opposite wall.

"Yes," he says, "these are the only rooms available on this floor... In the whole house, actually, except for the living room, the library and the kitchen. Come, I'll show you."

He heads through his room into the corridor, I walk behind. I don't know why, but the thought of sharing a bathroom with Potter makes me nervous and shy for no reason; this is ridiculous, we saw each other's dicks at Hogwarts showers quite a few times.

"The upper floors are total disaster," he throws over his shoulder, descending the staircase.

**

I wasn't joking about the rent. I have paid him. The first thing this morning. After breakfast, I contacted Gringotts, arranging the transfer to Potter's vault. The total sum for three months in advance, ten Galleons per week. Potter said it's up to me; he doesn't care for the price. I asked the Gringotts goblins for statistics on the London rent market. So this is the average price. All this I explained to Potter at lunch, handing him the Gringotts bill that confirmed the transfer. He rolled his eyes and said I'm an idiot.

Today I wandered the house and can confirm that Potter was right: the upper floors are total disaster. He moves up slowly with his remodelling. But it is what he could only manage so far.

The next few days I begin to feel restless, especially in the mornings - the absence of my hospital schedule is showing. Potter is busy with his work of rebuilding and painting and stuff. I offer my help. We spend all day with our wands drawn, controlling the process here and there, as brushes work under our spells. Kreacher is doing the cleaning. Even with magic it's not as quickly and simple as I thought.

I look at Potter working when he doesn't see me. It is fascinating to watch him when he is occupied. He is vigorous and energetic, his thick eyebrows drawn in concentration, he bites his lower lip. There is a smudge of paint at the side of his neck, I want to come close and wipe it off with my thumb. I look away. I have a feeling that he is aware of me, too.

**

I am standing under the shower, my body blessedly tired. It is a good thing; I am going to sleep well. I reach for the bottle of shampoo, squeezing out some into my palm. I am working it through my hair with my eyes closed, when I hear the door opens abruptly; I look. Potter is standing with his hand still on the door handle, eyeing me up and down. Our eyes meet, and he starts, slamming the door shut in front of his face. Merlin, I shouldn't be _that_ embarrassed, but I am. I look down at my half-hard cock and shake my head.

I am in my pyjamas, about to go to bed, when a faint sound from the bathroom reaches my ears. It repeats: half-sigh, half-grunt. I creep to the door and press my ear to the thin wood. Here it is: a quiet moan; all blood rushes down to my cock. I put my hand on the door handle and press it carefully. Opening the door just so, merely an inch, I peer inside but can see nothing from this angle. I mean, I see the edge of the bath and a towel thrown over it, but that's all. The sound of water running in the shower becomes louder, as well as the sounds Potter makes. I grip my cock through my pyjamas. He exhales shakily, and I think I can make out the faint sound of his hand flicking over his cock under running water, or maybe it’s just my wishful thinking, but I am already fully hard. I pull my pyjama bottoms down a bit to bare my cock, straining my ears for anything to fuel my lust. And here it comes again: _“Ahh,”_ followed by the series of quiet moans, and my hand flies frantic. I don’t know, probably Potter is deliberately dragging it out for ages, but I am about to finish having barely begun. I sink my teeth into my lower lip. _“Nnghh,”_ Potter utters, and grunts, and gasps – my cock jerks, and I spill over the polished wood of the door.

I barely manage to catch my breath when water turns off. Jerking my pyjamas up, I sprint towards the bed in a few giant leaps, falling on my stomach; thankfully, I’d already switched the lights off. The faint strip of the light from the bathroom door widens; I close my eyes.

“Draco?”

I lay still.

“Draco?”

“Hmmm?..” I make a show of turning lazily on my side.

“Have you?... Were you asleep?”

“Mmm... yeah,” I sigh, “think so...”

“Er... never mind... good night.”

“Good night,” I say.

The door closes.

**

**III**

He doesn't say a word. He just stands there with his hands at his sides. His head is bowed, and I look at short hair above his nape. From this angle he looks so vulnerable, my throat squeezes.

I would come up and hug him so that he knew he's not alone. But it's his place only - to stand there, and I don't move several feet behind. He's brought her flowers - roses, white as the marble they now rest against. He is here for the first time since September; couldn't bring himself to visit before, he said.

His hand darts up to wipe his face, and he turns to look at me over his shoulder. I come forward to stand behind him, hiding my face in his nape. Guilt is eating at me, I can't bring myself to face her.

Lucius' grave is right beside. Having come here, Draco gave him a curt bow, but nothing beyond. It is complicated between father and son. I myself am not sure how I feel. No, he didn't deserve to die like this, but he was totally meant to be in Azkaban. I will never pretend to think otherwise.

He turns to me, taking my hand. "Come."

He leads me away from the graves, heading from the edge of the grounds towards the Manor park.

"You know..." he says, as we pass something that looks like a neglected empty swimming pool in the middle of the park.

I look down over the edge: the vast basin is deep enough to accommodate no less than two human heights and is covered with thick grass - it is May already.

"I had never learned how to swim."

I turn to him. No wonder he'd chosen the Lake as a place to die, I think, but say nothing.

"As a child I was afraid of water," he continues, coming to sit beside me at the edge, "and never tried... that's why the pool always stood empty. Mother was afraid for my safety."

"I can teach you," I say out of the blue, starting at my own words, "if you want..."

He turns to me in surprise. "Oh... I don't know..."

"It's okay if you don't," I say hastily.

"No... it's fine... I would like to." He briefly touches my hand. "Is this okay for it?" He nods towards the pool.

"Yeah, it's perfect," I say, looking down, "we'll clean it and get rid of the grass."

**

When we arrive next morning, two house-elves have already finished the cleaning and are filling the basin with fresh water.

"I think it's too deep for you at the moment," I say, "let's make it safer." I cast, and he helps.

When we finally get into the water in our swimming trunks, it covers our shoulders, not quite reaching our chins.

"Okay, so..." I begin, suddenly anxious.

I mean, I swim myself but how are you supposed to describe how it is done? It's like teaching someone to breathe.

"Just show me, okay?" He says.

I show him, cutting through water in wide strokes around him.

He tries to mimic my movements and fails of course, sinking down.

"Look, maybe we'll use charms on you at first? You know, to help a bit?" I ask.

"No." He shakes his head. "I could have done it long ago. I want a _real thing_ , and to learn how to hold my breath, too."

He tries again and again, and I show him, and try to hold him around the torso at first. Annoyed, he bats my hand away.

"What are you doing? I'm not a baby."

It goes like this, and in a few hours he is finally able to swim a couple of yards in one go, spluttering, straining his neck not to let water into his mouth. He's like a puppy and makes me laugh and want to cuddle him.

"Hey, it's enough for today, I suppose," I say, "you are exhausted. We'll come tomorrow."

We come tomorrow, and the next day, and every morning again and again. He is very keen on learning, he doesn't give up. It becomes our daily routine. In a few weeks he is able to swim decently the whole length of the pool and back.

"I needed something like this," he says, one day as we are returning to the Manor gates, "in St. Mungo's I had a lot of exercise, and once you are used to it, you grow restless when it's no longer there."

Actually, he's not wrong; we've grown into this morning habit - a work-out of sorts.

The pool is far deeper now, ever since he'd learned how to swim. I restored it to its previous measurements. Draco cuts through water in wide strokes, in a relentless, steady rise and fall of his arms and shoulders. I watch the rippling of lithe muscles under the pale skin of his back. He's grown into his confidence, I feel he's becoming better than I in that. Every now and then I struggle to beat him to the opposite side of the pool; there's no envy in me.

"You know," he says, "I have an idea... maybe it’s mad, I don't know... I'm not going to tell you just yet."

The sun makes his wet hair golden as he lounges on the grass. I prop myself on the elbows.

"Mad?" I ask.

"Mad," he agrees, squinting at me; and I want to kiss him.

**

**IV**

I bolt out awake, my heart hammering; I think my own scream has wrenched me out of my sleep. I don't remember precisely what it's been about, but I am scared and afraid to close my eyes again. I switch the bedside lamp on.

"Harry?" Draco is standing by the bathroom door. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah..." I say, though I don't feel that.

"Are you sure?" He approaches my bed.

"It's just a nightmare, I suppose," I say.

He stops at the foot of the bed, obviously uncertain what to do next.

"Is there anything I can do?" He asks.

Yes, I think there is.

"Would you... sit with me for a while?" I say.

He comes to the side of the bed but doesn't sit. He climbs up behind me, draping himself over my back, covering us both with the blanket, and my heart is suddenly racing. He switches the light off.

I am safe and warm and grateful; his arm is around my chest, I press back into him.

"Don't call me 'Potter' anymore, okay?" I whisper, feeling him rubbing his face against the back of my head.

"Okay," he says.

We lie. I feel my body begins to stir in response to his touch. I could just turn in his arms and find his lips and rub myself shamelessly against him, and Merlin I want to. I lie still. It's not quite what this is about. If he made a move, I would deny him nothing. But he doesn't, so we lie in silence, and I will myself to be content.

When I open my eyes again, the brightness is flooding the room and I am alone in my bed.

I find him in the kitchen. He is fumbling with the coffee machine, avoiding my eyes. Things are suddenly cautious and awkward after that night, but he calls me ‘Harry’. Every glance is electrifying, every little touch makes me start. He is tense and wound up as a spring, ready to bolt out.

I don't know what are we waiting for, or why do we even resist? The question is "When?" and not "If?" He knows it, too.

Every morning I wake, gasping and painfully hard. In my dreams he lets me do anything to him, share my darkest secrets, until nothing is left to hide. I stroke myself in the shower, shameless scenarios going through my head, until I gaspe and choke on my pleasure, trying to stifle a cry.

Later, I avert my eyes from his pale chest in the swimming pool. From his lean stomach and shaped arms, from the line of his shoulders and his lithe legs, from the place below his navel, where a thin trail of hair disappears beneath the waistband of his swimming trunks.

I don't look, I turn away, but it doesn't matter, because I don't have to look to see all this, every plane of his body is etched under my eyelids.

**

**V**

"Can you dive?" He asks me one morning, when we are heading towards the pool from the gates.

"Yes."

"Show me," he says, "I mean, like really dive - from the height."

We undress and I take my wand. I transfigure the stone column at the edge of the pool into a diving board and cast a few spells to deepen the basin. Climbing up, I stand at the edge and raise my hands above my head. I bounce, kicking off the board, and jump head forward into the water.

"Whoa!" He exclaims when I surface. "Do you think I can manage that?"

"Well, let's see." I grin.

**

"What would you say if I told you I plan to donate the Manor to St. Mungo's?"

It is the first day of June, and summer is vibrant and lush. We are sitting at the top of the hill with the Manor below. We never go indoors; never.

"What?"

"There's this idea," he says, "the mad one I told you about, to turn the Manor into the Mind-Healing Centre. I'd already spoken to Proudy today, and he's going to bring this to their Board of Directors’ attention."

Draco undergoes a monthly check-up in St. Mungos to keep his conditions monitored.

I stare at him. "But... it's your home; it's been for centuries..."

"You know I cannot stand this place," he says quietly, "and how on earth is all this-" He gestures over the grounds. "Meant to cater to the whims of only one person, or even one family? At least this goddamn house would serve something good for once," he says bitterly.

My heart is going to burst for some reason. I want to launch and crush him in a bear-hug. I remain still, it's not what this is about and may be unwelcome.

"This is brilliant, Draco," I say, touching briefly the back of his hand. I am doing wonders with my self-restraint.

He smiles. "There is enough space to accommodate several hundred people at least, and there's no need to maintain all this enormous spell work for a half the year, the natural environment is real, which will reduce costs for the program immensely. Not everyone can afford the price St. Mungos charges for the treatment in Mind-Healing Ward. They will be able to make it more available to all people, with it here, not only to those who are disgustingly rich. And also... I want to build swimming pools on the grounds and indoors. _A lot,"_ he says, smiling, "it helps me - what we are doing. It may help others, too."

**

**VI**

It's his birthday today - the 5th of June. He’s never told me. I'd seen his hospital record once, that's how I know.

I haven't got him a present. I'd give anything to him - anything he wants or asked me to, but he never asks.

"Happy Birthday," I say, when he enters the kitchen in the morning.

He starts, raising his eyebrows.

"How do you know?"

I shrug.

"I mean, thanks..." He grins sheepishly.

"I haven't got anything for you," I say, “I have no idea what you want, or what you would like.”

"It's fine." He shrugs. “And anyway... I don’t want _things;_ I no longer give a fuck about things. So it’s okay, you don’t have to.”

"I want to," I say, "so..." I exhale. "Let me ask you out for dinner tonight. If that's okay?"

"It's okay."

He smiles, and there's _something_ in his eyes.

**

Draco kicks off the board, diving in a graceful arc head forward into the pool. I watch as his lithe body moves as though shooting forward, visible through transparent water all the way down to the tiled floor. Kicking off, he rises swiftly, surfacing in front of me in a mere second.

"So?" He asks, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"Hmmm... acceptable." I smirk.

He climbs over the edge of the pool, walking up the steps to where I stand on the diving board.

"Acceptable?" He raises his eyebrow.

"Acceptable," I confirm.

Grabbing me around the waist, he throws us both into the water where we land in a tangle of limbs. Draping himself over my body, he drags me down and under, until we touch the floor. Kicking off, we soar upwards into the shining sphere of the sun that is soaking through the water from above, and I wrap my legs around his waist. Gulping the air, he swims me backwards to the edge of the basin, until my back presses into the stone. Our eyes meet, and there is only one thing that is left to us. He leans forward, and I respond, meeting him in the middle, until our lips touch. I tighten my legs around him. His lips are soft and tender, and I know he is dying for it, too, for into the kiss he pours everything I have been waiting for so long.

We walk in silence, and neither of us looks at the other. I want to hold his hand but don't reach out. A stubborn smile tugs at my lips, no matter how hard I try to keep my face straight. I glance at him. He turns his face away, but I see the corner of his mouth curves, and that is enough.

Passing the Manor, we see people in green dungarees and casks scattering over the porch. The place is busy with the bursts of activity, noise and flying spells; the work of remodelling has begun - St. Mungo's have accepted the offer.

Our work at Grimmauld is almost done, too. The rooftop garden is the only thing that remains to finish - we are making it by transfiguring the attic.

**

"Wow." He presses his palms to the glass. "Just _look_ at this..."

Coming up behind him, I place my palms over his hands and rest my chin on his shoulder. We are suspended in the night air inside the giant glass cabin of the London Eye. The city is a handful of jewels, scattered below in the dark on both sides of the Thames ribbon.

I press my face to his neck, breathing him in, and he doesn't withdraw.

"Happy Birthday," I say.

**

I brush my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror. Draco paces his room. Rinsing my mouth, I put the toothbrush down and wait. Wait for him to enter and... I don't know... At least stop pretending that nothing is going on, I suppose.

Fine. I'm taking the shower.

I stand under hot water for a long time. I soap myself twice. I wash my hair. I switch the water off and take a towel. Nothing is going on, it seems, because he doesn't come. I go to my bedroom, loudly closing the door. As soon as I sit on my bed, the shower begins running.

Brilliant.

Perhaps he is waiting for me to do the very thing I myself hope for? I contemplate the thought of throwing the towel down and just going to him and make him fucking _acknowledge_ me. But the shower stops soon, and the door shuts, and everything is quiet.

_Fuck._

As soon as we stepped into the house, everything became awkward. I really wanted to pounce at him right there in the hallway and be done with it. But he began climbing the stairs, not looking at me. So I did nothing. I couldn't do it without forcing myself on him.

I sit and sit, looking at my bare feet on the carpet. Draco has such delicate toes.

I stand up.

Enough.

When I open the bathroom door, the door of his room opens at the same time; we stare at each other. He has nothing on but a towel around his hips, and so do I. He opens the door wider. I stand still. Though it's not what I want to do, holding my breath, I don't move, continuing our staring contest.

I know Draco considers me to be an insensitive bear, the one that wouldn't know subtlety if it hit him in the face. But I've changed around him, I want to think so. I want to believe that I know him well enough by now not to press, to do _this_ right.

It has to be his own decision, otherwise he won't come at all.

Throwing his towel on the floor, he comes.

He comes up close, claiming my lips, running his hands up and down my sides, and I realise I still hold the door-handle. Releasing it, I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him into my room.

We stop by the bed, and he unwraps the towel from my hips, looking down. My cock is half-hard. He kneels on the carpet and takes me by the hips, rubbing his face into that place where my hip and leg are joined, and there is so much tenderness in his touch.

It suddenly strikes me: he's nervous, this is what it is. Of course he is. He's never done this before. I am an idiot, of course he has not. When should it have happened between the war, the trials, his mother's death and his attempts to kill himself?

I am nervous, too. I've been only with Blaise... and it was partly illusion, I was not myself. Now, that I am sober - would I be able to make it good for him?

I pull him up. "Come."

He grabs me around the waist, throwing us both on the bed, very much like he did in the pool; the thought makes me laugh.I roll us over, pressing him into the mattress.

"Got you." I grin, straddling his hips, my patience stretched thin.

I am going to devour him. I’ve been waiting for this for too long. I dive for a kiss, relishing the sensation of his hot skin under my palms as he arches. I trail his collarbones with my lips - they don’t stand out as sharply as before - thankfully, he is not as deathly thin as he'd once been.

His cock is leaking on his stomach, I wrap my palm around its thick length. He is big, and I am unsettled. But the other way around is hardly an option, I don't want to hurt him and right now I might. At least of the two of us, I am the one who'd already taken it up the arse. I reach for lube in my drawer.

He stares up at me. I feel his hands on my thighs are trembling a bit. I squeeze some lube right onto his cock, smearing it down, and then take some more, coating thoroughly the head. I don’t know the spells Blaise used on me, and with lube experimented a bit.

Rising on my knees, I shuffle forward, reaching behind to line up his cock. Hoping I’m doing it right, I bear down, but nothing happens, I cannot push it past the rim.

“Wait,” he says, sitting up and shuffling backwards, pulling me with him, until his back is pressed to the headboard.

I line up again and squeeze and push, bearing slowly down, and he helps with his hands, until it’s happening and I feel his girth burns inside, filling me until I’m cracking at the seams.

“Stop.” I wince, though he’s not doing anything.

It fucking hurts. I sink further down, gripping the headboard at the either side of his head.

“Are you alright?” He whispers, his face contorting as though in pain.

“Yeah...” I exhale, lowering myself to finally sit down on his lap.

“Does it hurt?” He bites at his lower lip. “’Cause I may come right fucking now.”

“Hurts a bit,” I say, moving experimentally up and down, and he hisses, squeezing my arse.

I shuffle backwards a bit, and finally find that spot. That little place inside me, which now prickles, worried with his cock. I move and he gasps, throwing his head back against the headboard. I am getting close. He jerks beneath me and comes with a cry. I grip my cock, picking up speed. My back arches as I move above him, my hand flying in a blur. My pleasure ripples through me, making me come on his chest and neck and even on his chin. I collapse on top of him and bury my face into the crook of his neck.

“How do you feel?” He asks when I rise on my knees and wince at the sensation of his cock slipping out.

“Dead,” I say and lower myself down by his side.

“You know, I’ve never...” He trails off.

“I know,” I say, pressing my lips to his shoulder.

“ _How?_ ”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” he says, reaching for the blanket to cover us up, “this is a really happy birthday.” He settles under the cover to face me. “Thank you.”

I nod, wiping a fair lock of hair from his sweaty forehead; his eyes close.

“I think I love you,” I whisper, but he is already asleep.

**

**VII**

“One, two, three!” He says.

We dive.

Dive off the cliff into the black waters. Side by side, flying forward, cutting through the depth, pressing further down until the momentum wears off. We press on into the deep, determination dragging us along. He is better than I – I see it in the way his body begins to unravel its strength, stoked for this very moment, swiftly gathering speed, and I know I don’t stand a chance. He is down there already, touching the mark on the stone, kicking off in a somersault and passing me on his way back. I look up in his wake, to where the sun is hanging, piercing the waters of the Black Lake with its shining strands. There’s no point for me to proceed, he’s already won, and there is almost no air left in my lungs. I follow him to the surface.

“Got you!” He grabs my shoulders as soon as I stick my head out. “You see? I’m better, I told you - I’ve won.”

Water makes his hair golden, sun is shining at me from his eyes.

“You are better,” I agree, kissing him on the lips.

Having cast the drying spells and dressed, we walk up to the castle. He is holding my hand, and when people come into view, he doesn’t let go. Let them stare, I think. We go all the way to our old Common Room – to eat and rest and change for the evening.

**

The ceremony is to be held on the grounds; it is the middle of July and the weather is lush. We approach the rows of chairs that are lined up in a semicircle.

“Draco!” Blaise claps him on the shoulder.

He looks striking in his formal robes. Draco and I suddenly seem underdressed in our Muggle evening suits.

“Hello, old man!” Draco hugs him.

Blaise turns to me, offering his hand, I shake it briefly. I know this is all fake and doesn’t matter, and that Blaise wouldn’t do it to me again, but I feel that traitorous spark between our palms when our skin touch, feel that faint pull that is still _there_ when Blaise is around. We talked about it with Draco; he said he doesn’t feel this way about Blaise, probably because they never had it for real. Or maybe because Blaise had been my first – my first man, I mean, that is why this connection persists. I let go of his hand.

Blaise is not for me, and we both know it, and Draco shouldn’t be jealous, but he is a bit, and I know that this _thing_ between me and Blaise will never really go away. We should better keep our distance.

“You two look sharp, guys” Blaise grins, pulling us toward the lawn.

“Harry!”

I turn. She is so beautiful – she takes my breath away. In her plum-colour gown, her curly hair gathered above her nape. I’ve really forgotten how Hermione can be. I hug her, breathing in her perfume; I haven’t seen her for ages.

“You look amazing,” I say, “and so grown-up!”

“Hi, Draco,” she says awkwardly, offering her hand.

He shakes it. “Nice gown, they say you are determined to pursue a career in Mind-Healing?”

“What?” I turn to him. “How on earth _you do_ know it and _I_ don’t?”

“I have my sources.” He smirks.

“Harry!”

Ron approaches through the crowd. He has come to Hermione’s ceremony. I take Draco’s hand. He discreetly tries to wiggle it free out of my grip, not drawing anyone's attention. I don’t let him, pulling him closer, squeezing his fingers hard.

“What the fuck?” He hisses. I only grip his hand harder.

“Ron!” I smile, offering him my free hand.

Ron's eyes widen when he sees how close to each other Draco and I stand,  when he sees our joined hands, but otherwise he says nothing, giving me a handshake.

“Hi, Malfoy." He nods.

“Weasley.” Draco is still trying to extricate his fingers from my grip. I tug at his hand, willing him to stop, when McGonagall approaches us.

“Good evening Ms. Granger, gentlemen." She smiles. “What a nice surprise to meet you Harry. Mr. Malfoy.” She nods at him, Draco nods in response, and she looks down at our joined hands.

“I had met Mr. Proudy recently, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, “and he told me that your Mind-Healing Centre had officially opened its door for the patients two weeks ago, and it is a success!”

“Thank you." Draco nods, he is visibly uncomfortable.

“ _Your healing centre_?” Ron blurts.

“It’s not _my_ healing centre.” Draco rolls his eyes. “It’s just...”

“Why... Mr. Malfoy donated the Malfoy Manor to the St. Mungo’s Mind-Healing Program, and it had already accepted into treatment more than a hundred patients,” McGonagall says, and Ron’s eyes go wide.

“But... how did we not know this?! Harry?” Hermione’s face is bewildered.

Draco asked me not to tell anyone before the whole thing would actually work out.

I shrug and shake my head.

“All right, now everyone,” McGonagall says, “do please take your sits, we are about to begin.”

The Graduation Ceremony at Hogwarts this year is granted with the two outstanding students: Hermione Granger and Blaise Zabini, who have already received their job offers in Healing and Curse-Breaking respectively.

People applaude and we join, and I lean closer to Draco’s chair.

“What do you want to do with your career?” I say, brushing the side of his face with my nose.

He leans back to look at me. "No idea?”

I laugh. “Me too.”

“Actually...” he says, “I’ve been thinking of travelling... you know – seeing the world. If I asked you...” He leans closer. “To join me in that journey. What would you say?”

“Yes,” I say, placing my palm onto his thigh, “I’d say yes.”

 ******* The End of the Part 2** (look for the link to the Part 3 down below) *********

_**I am on Tumblr:[big-draco-energy](https://big-draco-energy.tumblr.com/)** _

 

[ **_[Troye Sivan, 'Swimming Pools']_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SM8bTVpFq7Y)

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

 

_So tell me how I'm gonna get past this wave to empty swimming pools_

_Cause I just wanna be at the start of after loving you_

_I plant my feet and I clench my teeth_

_I can't outrun what's coming after me_

_So tell me how I'm gonna get past this wave to empty swimming pools_

 

_But I see a lighthouse in the distance calling my name_

_But I can't get there 'til I go through all of this pain_

_There's a glimmer of hope like an exhale of smoke in the sky_

_And sometimes you drain out all the shit that used to feel right_

_Empty swimming pools_

 

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_So tell me how I'm gonna get past this wave to empty swimming pools_

_Tell me how I'm gonna feel less secure when I look at you_

_So I close my eyes and just visualize_

_The greener skies on the other side_

_So tell me how I'm gonna get past this wave to empty swimming pools_

 

_But I see a lighthouse in the distance calling my name_

_But I can't get there 'til I go through all of this pain_

_There's a glimmer of hope like an exhale of smoke in the sky_

_And sometimes you drain out all the shit that used to feel right_

_Empty swimming pools_

_Empty swimming pools_

_Empty swimming pools_

_Empty swimming pools_

 

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

_I've been running, running, run_

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work belongs to the series "Lost Boys" and is preceded by the work "Lost Boy".  
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your opinions with me in the comments below if you want :)  
> Tell me how you came across this fic, I'm really interested to know!


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